I am still holding onto this idea.

I carry it before me as I walk, contemplating

its purpose.

It is the desire to write on

your body:

a sonnet across your back

fourteen perfectly phrased lines of

iambic pen

tameter.

I would compose while you lay reading,

me penning lyrics across your left breast

and long thoughtful phrases down your thigh.

And during the day when we are out, you are

poetry in motion, cotton and synthetic mix covering the ink and skin

your top unbuttoned exposing some sunny

metaphor that slips back under a strap.

But you are shopping.